Just past dawn
She toddles out in
A flour-sack apron,
A hatchet in her
Pocket.
Beside the upright
Log, its bark aging,
Leans a potato sack
With one white
Cackling hen inside.
The woman is all
Business, this job
Nothing new,
Dinner comes soon.
The log is capped
With two rusty nails
About 2 inches apart.
The hen continues
Her song, ignorant
Of her fate.
The woman grabs
The hen in her left
Hand, the hachet
In her pocket.
With deft attention,
The woman places
The hen’s neck between
The nails.
The cackling becomes
A maniacal squawk,
But no one is there
To grieve.
One quick stroke
Is all it takes, and
The hen’s head is
On the ground.
The stump is full
Of blood, and the
Proverbial body
Is running around,
Minus the squawk.
The woman grabs
The hen and shoves
Her back into the
Potato sack, minus
Its head.
The task is done,
Five minutes max.
Time to take her
To the kitchen for
The plucking of
Feathers and the
Saving of edible
Internal organs.
The woman and her
Hen are ready for
The family’s Sunday
Dinner, only hours
Away.
The hen’s head
Rests outside, its
Comb, beak and
Wattle the worse
For wear.
The woman sings,
Rehearsing:
*Komm, Herr Jesu,
Sei unser Gast….*
© Lewis Bosworth, 2016
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
Just past dawn
She toddles out in
A flour-sack apron,
A hatchet in her
Pocket.
Beside the upright
Log, its bark aging,
Leans a potato sack
With one white
Cackling hen inside.
The woman is all
Business, this job
Nothing new,
Dinner comes soon.
The log is capped
With two rusty nails
About 2 inches apart.
The hen continues
Her song, ignorant
Of her fate.
The woman grabs
The hen in her left
Hand, the hachet
In her pocket.
With deft attention,
The woman places
The hen’s neck between
The nails.
The cackling becomes
A maniacal squawk,
But no one is there
To grieve.
One quick stroke
Is all it takes, and
The hen’s head is
On the ground.
The stump is full
Of blood, and the
Proverbial body
Is running around,
Minus the squawk.
The woman grabs
The hen and shoves
Her back into the
Potato sack, minus
Its head.
The task is done,
Five minutes max.
Time to take her
To the kitchen for
The plucking of
Feathers and the
Saving of edible
Internal organs.
The woman and her
Hen are ready for
The family’s Sunday
Dinner, only hours
Away.
The hen’s head
Rests outside, its
Comb, beak and
Wattle the worse
For wear.
The woman sings,
Rehearsing:
*Komm, Herr Jesu,
Sei unser Gast….*
© Lewis Bosworth, 2016
Request permission to use this poem